


As I Have Done

by didsomebodysay



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Maundy Thursday, enjolras as a christ figure, he denies enjolras three times and enjolras forgives him three times, some religious imagery, the last supper, very slight foot injury/blood tw, which makes grantaire peter in this case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 15:49:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14139318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didsomebodysay/pseuds/didsomebodysay
Summary: “I still can’t believe he gave up Stanford for two years in some war-torn country! And for what?” Grantaire scoffs loudly, but Joly can hear the pain in his voice. “I won’t go to his funeral.”Enjolras is leaving on a humanitarian mission overseas and Grantaire is handling it as well as you'd expect.





	As I Have Done

**Author's Note:**

> this whole thing is just an excuse to write about an image that has been stuck in my head forever - Enjolras washing Grantaire's feet à la Jesus and the disciples. here it is for Maundy Thursday. :)

This is the worst night of Grantaire’s life - and no, that isn’t an exaggeration. Just like how tomorrow morning will be the worst morning of his life, and the next two years will be the worst two years of his life. Surrounding his sorrow are his friends freely chatting away, wine pouring without a care, and a heavy air of sentimentality.

Courfeyrac clinks his fork against his wine glass, capturing everyone’s attention as chatter around the table fades. He grins before beginning to chant, “Speech! Speech! Speech!” All eyes turn to Enjolras, who, sitting at the center of the table, flushes, but the rosier-than-usual color on his brown face is also attributed to the glass of wine in his hand. Just the one glass has made him more informal in his mannerisms in a way that Grantaire thinks he has never seen before. 

“There’s no need for a speech,” Enjolras says, raising his hands as some of the others start chanting all in good-natured teasing. Enjolras looks around helplessly, finally finding Combeferre’s eye. His best friend merely shrugs, a spark of humor in his eyes as he says, “It _is_ our last dinner together.”

“I’m not leaving forever! I’m coming back,” He argues, grinning despite himself.

“Yeah, in _two_ years!” Bahorel counters, banging his hand on the table so hard his plate rattles. That is all the convincing Enjolras needs because he puts his hands up again in an appeasing gesture as he stands.

Grantaire finds it difficult to look at him like this, because the thought of Enjolras leaving hurts, but it hurts more to see him so luminous that it is nearly blinding. He doesn’t think his eyes can handle it any more than his heart can.

Enjolras takes a moment to look around at the group seated around him. His and Combeferre’s modest bungalow isn’t large enough to fit all of them, but there they all were, cramped and happy to be here for him.

“Thank you all so much for putting this dinner together,” Enjolras says. “I don’t know what I would do without every single one of you, and I am beyond honored to call you all my friends.”

“Sap!” Courfeyrac teases him from down the table.

Enjolras raises his glass to that, and the whole table erupts in more cheering.

“Two years, in the grand scheme of things, is not a very long time, but know I will be missing you all every day. Please write to me - I promise I will always make time to answer you guys, no matter what. More importantly, make sure to take care of each other and continue working your hardest to further our goals for a better future. That is the most important thing.”

The table becomes silent as Enjolras finishes speaking, save for Courfeyrac whose sniffling has betrayed him, yet again, as the real sap at the table.

Enjolras didn’t tell anyone when he applied for a position at International Rescue Committee. Everyone was focused on graduation, thesis presentations, or applying to grad school. Enjolras had been accepted to Stanford for law school, but something called him for more. Stanford wouldn’t defer his enrollment for two years, but Enjolras felt it was right to let it go anyway. That was what he told everyone three months ago when he broke the news. Grantaire remembers that evening too vividly no matter how many bottles of wine he drank from that moment to the present night - and tonight is finally the end of it all.

Enjolras sits back down, graciously allowing those who reach across the table for hugs, kisses, or to ruffle his hair without complaint.

Down at the far left of the table, Grantaire forces himself to watch over the rim of his wine glass. When Enjolras has seated again, he turns to Joly, but he’s speaking to no one in particular.

“I still can’t believe he gave up Stanford for two years in some war-torn country! And for what?” Grantaire scoffs loudly, but Joly can hear the pain in his voice. “I won’t go to his funeral.”

That earns him a sharp kick from beneath the table. “Everyone can hear you,” Eponine says through gritted teeth. Grantaire doesn’t need to turn his head to know that Enjolras, although in conversation with Combeferre and Marius at the moment, has set his attention on their end of the table. 

Grantaire looks up at Eponine sullenly and takes another drink of wine. “Good,” he snaps. “I need some fresh air.” He stands up so abruptly his knee hits on the underside of the table, causing their plates and glasses to clatter. He pats his pockets for his cigarettes and then grabs the near empty bottle of wine from the table before leaving the table. The conversation around the table ceases as the sudden movement catches everyone’s attention and an uncomfortable silence settles around them.

Joly catches Eponine’s eye, but before either of them can react, Enjolras is already standing up. Eponine motions for him to sit back down.

“It’s okay,” she reassures him, “Enjoy your last night, we got this.” She stands up, followed by Joly and Bossuet, and they follow Grantaire outside. It’s not as if they knew he wasn’t hurting, but some small part of them hoped they would be able to get through this dinner with minimal fallout.

They find him in the middle of the yard smoking, cradling the wine bottle in his arm like a lifeline. He must hear them approaching because he says, without turning around, “I can’t believe he’s leaving. He has a whole world to save but I--”

“Have had too much to drink,” Eponine interjects. She reaches over and plucks the bottle from his arm.

“Ha!” He laughs, but the sound is miserable. “I won’t go to his--”

“‘Funeral,’ we know,” Bossuet says, “You just said that.”

“Well, I mean it,” Grantaire says defensively, pulling the bottle away from Eponine.

“No, you don’t,” Joly says patiently. Eponine reaches for the bottle again, but this time Grantaire holds it out of reach.

“Grantaire, please give Ep the bottle,” Joly says, watching Eponine swipe for it again.

“This is for your good,” She explains.

Grantaire pulls away from her. One moment he’s pulling it out of her hands, and the next he stumbles backward, the bottle dropping from his outstretched hand. Shards of glass scattered in every direction, shimmering on the ground like stars freed from the night sky.

“Ep! Fucking hell,” Grantaire grumbles. He puts out his cigarette and stubs it out with the toe of his boot, looking at the mess around his feet defeatedly. “We have to clean this.” 

Joly puts his hand on his arm. “It’s too dark. We’ll tell Combeferre, and he can take care of it in the morning. Let’s just go inside, Grantaire,” he coaxes, “Bahorel was saying something about taking arm wrestling bets.”

“I _am_ a champ at arm wrestling,” Grantaire nods, allowing himself to be baited with cheap distractions. 

Eponine pats him on the arm. “Yes, yes you are,” she agrees as the three lead him back inside. 

\--

Enjolras awkwardly pats Marius on the back as Cosette hovers in the open doorway. This is the second time Marius, red nosed with tears and alcohol, stopped halfway out the door to hug Enjolras goodbye. 

Cosette gently peels her fiance off Enjolras’s shoulders. “Come on, babe. It’s time to go home. Enjolras needs to sleep.”

When there are at least two steps of space between himself and Marius, Enjolras shoots Cosette a sympathetic smile as she loops her arm around Marius’s. He didn’t expect the outpour of emotion tonight, but maybe that was to be expected with Courfeyrac commandeering the conversation to share stories about Enjolras that ranged from horribly embarrassing to so endearing that Courf ended in tears most of the time. 

From the front door, he watches Marius and Cosette, along with Bahorel and Feuilly, walk out and waits until they’ve reached the sidewalk before closing the door with a soft click behind them.

Combeferre has already gone to bed after helping clear up the kitchen, and Courf passed out snoring on the couch long before most people left, no doubt drooling over Enjolras’ favorite throw blanket that Jehan knitted. 

Finally, he is alone.

As the clock ticks further and further away from midnight, Enjolras realizes he has nothing to keep him awake: his bags are packed, the dishes from their dinner are washed and drying, his paperwork and flight information organized.Still, something nags at him deep down that he is missing something, that there is still something left to do. Combeferre chalked it up to nerves before he went to bed, but Enjolras isn’t nervous about tomorrow. With nothing else to do to occupy his mind, Enjolras grabs a paper bag from the kitchen and a pair of gloves and heads outside. 

The night sky above him is pitch black. Enjolras flips on the patio light, casting yellow glow over barely half of the yard. Using the flashlight app on his phone, Enjolras carefully sets out in search of the broken glass. The largest piece of the bottle is in the section of their yard toward the back with grass, and the smaller pieces scattered around on the concrete. 

After a minute he hears the whistling, sharp inhale of a cigarette. He turns around, makeshift flashlight pointed at--

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire shields his face from the light, squinting at Enjolras from where he is standing in the side yard. It takes Enjolras a second to react and turn off the app.

“Why are you doing that? You should be sleeping. We told you we’d clear it up in the morning.”

Something about that makes Enjolras frown, but Grantaire can’t bring himself to ask why. The patio light behind Enjolras casts half his face in shadow, elongating the downward curve of his expression. “I couldn’t sleep,” Enjolras answers shortly, then glances down at Grantaire’s feet. “Why are you barefoot?”

“I lost an arm wrestling bet against Bahorel, so he and Eponine took my shoes. Not sure where they are.” He takes another drag of his cigarette, then adds thoughtfully, “My shoes, or Ep and Bahorel.”

“Why are you still here?”

Grantaire shrugs. “They must have been confused about who was taking me home.” 

“So why are you outside? Stop coming closer, Grantaire. Be careful, there’s broken glass.” 

“Let me sleep here.”

“Outside?”

Enjolras is about to speak again when he is cut off by a sharp intake of breath and Grantaire cursing. 

“Fuck--”

“Are you okay?” Enjolras flips his flashlight app back on and points it on the ground.

Grantaire tries to lift his foot to assess the damage and winces again. “Ugh, I cut my foot, I think I’m bleeding,” he grimaces.

Enjolras shepherds Grantaire toward the patio, pulls a chair to angle it toward the patio light, and eases Grantaire onto it. Grantaire pulls his right foot up and winces at the blood dripping from a cut on the bottom of his foot. 

“Do you think it needs stitches?” He asks, putting out his cigarette against the wall beside him.

Enjolrasis shaking his head before he can even take a look. “No. Hold on; I’ll be right back.” He disappears back into the house and reappears a few moments later with several items tucked into the crook of his arm.

He kneels down to get a better look at the cut. “Good news is there aren’t any shards of glass stuck in it,” he says, then carefully looks at Grantaire’s other foot. There are small, reflective pieces of broken glass that didn’t penetrate the skin mixed with gravel and dirt from the grass stuck to the sole of his foot.

He reaches for the bottle of water he brought with him. Grantaire holds his leg out as straight as he can, but the blood is already oozing down to his ankle and dripping onto the floor beneath them. Enjolras uncaps the bottle and hovers it over both of Grantaire’s feet. 

Grantaire jerks away. “You can’t wash my feet,” he says, horrified. The water Enjolras pours splashes on the ground beneath them.

Enjolras grabs his ankle again, firmer this time. “Let me help you. You’ve stepped in glass and gravel and dirt, your cut has dirt in it, so unless I wash you--,” 

“Okay, okay,” Grantaire concedes, interrupting him. He can feel his cheeks burning hot as Enjolras reaches for the water bottle again. 

“Besides,” Enjolras says, milder than before, glancing up at Grantaire as he pours water again, “this will give us a chance to talk since I’m leaving tomorrow morning.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Grantaire says grimly. 

Enjolras looks up at him again, this time surprised, and it shoots a sharp ache in Grantaire’s chest.

“Don’t tell me you’ll miss me,” Enjolras says. He pats both his feet dry, careful to use different sides of the washcloth on each one. He works gently, methodically, like the task before him is the most critical in the world.

“Is that so hard to believe?” Grantaire asks quietly.

“I believe you took great care to avoid me tonight completely and instead made arm wrestling bets with Bahorel which cost you your shoes.” It isn’t an admonishment. Grantaire isn’t sure what it is. It could be a trick of the light, the alcohol, the terrible, aching embarrassment he feels to have Enjolras bowing to clean and bandage his feet with such tenderness -- but Grantaire thinks Enjolras looks hurt. 

“I didn’t think you noticed,” he confesses in a mumble.

“I always notice.” 

He looks up at Grantaire again with deep, dark eyes in an expression so focused that in a horrible, fleeting moment, Grantaire feels like Enjolras can stare right into his soul. He quickly looks away, face flushing, and focuses on Enjolras’s hands instead, which haven’t stopped working. 

He is applying some kind of ointment to his cut with an applicator with a touch so light Grantaire thinks he wouldn’t have felt it unless he was watching Enjolras work. The image of concerned hands and the way the patio light shines off the frizzy hair around the crown of his head in a ray of light will forever be seared into Grantaire’s memory. 

Enjolras opens a large, clean bandage from the kit and sprinkles some brown powder on it. He explains, unprompted, and fills the silence between them again. “Coffee grounds. It helps stop the bleeding.”

“Did Combeferre teach you that?”

Enjolras shoots him a small grin. The easy expression that reaches his eyes is so different from the intense gaze a few minutes ago. “I taught him that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire hears himself saying. The sound of his own voice is hollow and distant to his own ears. “For avoiding you tonight. I wish - I wish I could -,” he falters, looking down at Enjolras helplessly. Enjolras meets his gaze with a thoughtful stare. “It’s okay,” he says, “I know it’s hard.” He doesn’t elaborate on what he knows is hard, and Grantaire doesn’t ask, because he can’t shake the feeling that maybe Enjolras just _knows_. 

Enjolras stands to his full height once he finishes cleaning up the space around him. “Can you walk?” he asks Grantaire. He reaches over him and slides the backyard door open.

Grantaire gingerly sets his foot down and tries to stand. His right foot stings, but it’s nothing compared to before. He nods and follows Enjolras into the living room.

“You can sleep on the couch,” Enjolras tells him, “I’ll move Courf to my room,” and nods to the snoring figure of Courfeyrac draped over the sofa. 

Grantaire frowns at him. “I think I’m fine just to go home,” he says, but Enjolras is already bent over Courfeyrac, gently nudging his shoulder with the same tenderness he had used to clean and bandage Grantaire. Something about the sight compels him to look away - of course, that kind of softness isn’t meant for only him, and it feels like an intrusion to witness the way Courf clings to his best friend, still half asleep.

“Don’t worry about that,” Enjolras finally tells him. He’s gotten Courf to his feet and is already leading him down the hallway to his bedroom. “Sleep here. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Grantaire nods. He lays down, staring at the ceiling until Enjolras returns to turn off the light. Then, in the darkness, he forces himself to sleep.

\--

It doesn’t feel very long since Grantaire closes his eyes that he hears sounds around him; doors opening and closing, hushed voices, footsteps moving back and forth.

“Grantaire? Grantaire.”

He opens his eyes, squinting to adjust even though the living room is still quite dark. 

“Hey,” Grantaire mumbles, blinking sleep from his eyes. Slowly it registers where he is, and why Enjolras is waking him up at some terribly early hour of the morning. He’s leaving for the airport. Enjolras is hovering beside the couch, a large backpack on his shoulders. Grantaire wants nothing more than to remove that burden from him even though Enjolras standing tall beneath the weight of it carries it well. He sits up, wincing as he presses his foot against the floor harder than he intended.

“Don’t get up,” he says, “Courf and Combeferre are waiting in the car, so I only have a few minutes before I have to leave. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Grantaire swallows, looking up at him. “Oh. Um. Okay. Goodbye, right? Be safe, okay?”

Enjolras nods like any advice Grantaire could give him is worth following. “Of course,” he says, “You’ll take care of yourself.” It isn’t a question, but a demand. 

“I’ll take care of myself as you have done,” Grantaire says, then adds after Enjolras blinks owlishly at him, “I’m serious.”

The surprised expression on his face becomes satisfied as he nods. “Good.” He glances down at his watch. “I need to leave. Go back to sleep, okay? It’s not even 5:30 in the morning.” 

“Wait--” Grantaire clears his throat. “Would it be okay if I wrote to you while you’re away? Like, email?”

Enjolras beams at the suggestion. “Of course it’s okay. You have my email, write to me as often as you’d like. Now I really do need to go. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I believe it,” Grantaire says, watching as Enjolras heads toward the front door. 

Then he leaves. Just like that, gone.

The sound of the door closing settles around him. A few moments later he can hear a car pulling away from the curb. The morning is so quiet he can listen to the car as it goes down the block until it completely disappears. He lays back down, forcing to keep his eyes open as morning light begins to peer through the blinds. 

He’s still awake not even an hour later when he phone chimes with an alert. His heart skips a beat when he sees the sender’s email address and opens it quickly, thankful to still have the house to himself. 

**From:** g.enjolras@gmail.com 

**Subject:** Read Me 

Hey Grantaire,

I’m at the airport and still have internet connection for now, so I may not be able to reply for some time after this. I forgot to tell you - I found your shoes in the laundry hamper. I left them in the hallway for you.

See you when I get back!

-Enjolras

He stars the email as important and closes the app, holding his phone close to his chest, realizing the cold dread in his chest that he anticipated for this morning isn’t there, and instead there is a calm feeling inside him as he calls back on the way Enjolras smiled at him as he said goodbye. 


End file.
